


The Detective Cometh

by Abbytheweird



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abbytheweird/pseuds/Abbytheweird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of a building. Three years since John went back to being an ordinary ex-army doctor. But that is all about to change.</p>
<p>Do people still write these? First published on ff over a year ago, I think, but my account looked bare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Detective Cometh

'SHERLOCK!' John Watson woke with a start, images of his falling friend fading into the dull, weary haze of a Spring 5 AM. He couldn't understand why he was dreaming of that day; it had been 3 years. John missed Sherlock terribly, and he still couldn't bring himself to return to Baker Street, but still, he wasn't overwhelmed by grief any more. He'd even stopped seeing his therapist the previous year, and he hadn't had a dream about him for months. John Watson was able to go out, work, and do things.  
Shivering from both the bitter cold of his tiny flat on the edge of Croydon, and from the terrible dreams, he swung his legs around and his bare feet touched the frozen floor boards. He grabbed his cane (his psychosomatic limp had returned shortly after Sherlock's jump) and hobbled over to the jumper on the floor, limping dreadfully. He pulled the soft, woolly fabric over his head and hugged it close. He was cold, awfully so, and the thick lull of the warm jumper brought sleep back to his eyes. He grumbled and fell back into bed, pulling the duvet over his head, and blocking out the desperate morning. He decided that he wasn't keen to get back to his dreams of Sherlock.  
Soon, far too soon for the liking of Doctor John Watson, his alarm beeped, informing his that it was time to get up, get dressed and drag himself along to court. John had busied his free hours with helping Lestrade with cases from time to time, and a particularly interesting villain was being tried on that bitter Sunday morning.  
Six and a half hours later, John Watson walked out of court, stiff and groggy from sitting in silence for an unbearable amount of time. The verdict that was given was guilty, so at least the afternoon had been productive. His back ached from the desolate wooden stalls most court rooms had installed, and much like a cat in the sun, he stood on his toes and crunched his back, arms outstretched to the sides. His hand came into contact with a pile of books in the hands of a hunched very elderly gentleman, knocking them to the floor.  
"Oh, my goodness! I'm so, so sorry!" blurted John, who quickly bent down to pick up the books, only to have his face smacked by the butt of the elderly man's cane.  
"Don't touch my books, you rapscallion!" wheezed the old man, hurriedly, making another swipe at John, who dodged the second blow, cradling his bleeding cheek with one hand.  
"Alight, alright!" spurted John. The old man began to say something, but the roar of traffic stole the aggravated words and stopped them from reaching the ears of a very baffled version of Watson.  
John called into the surgery and disappeared into the bathroom for a while to clean up his face, leaving a small cut and an unobvious bruise.  
"I know I'm not working today, but I have nothing better to do than sort some paper work." He explained as his secretary protested to him working yet more extra hours. "I won't take any patients, if having to pay me for over time is worrying our boss." He smiled and slipped into his little office.  
After Sherlock's death, John lost himself in work. He worked over time shift after shift, refusing to sleep and only eating when Sarah showed up with food to keep him going through all the extra patients he took on. It wasn't until Lestrade suggested that he help out with cases that John stopped working so much. However, without Sherlock around he wasn't as essential, and often Lestrade would have to ask John to leave, and to stop calling up asking to help. However, as time went on and Sherlock turned into a happy memory, John started working normal hours, but still filled his extra time with left over paperwork.  
After an hour, maybe two (John wasn't paying attention to the time) his door creaked open.  
"Doctor Watson?" croaked a voice. John didn't look up.  
"I'm sorry I'm not taking patients today. Who let you in?"  
"I'm not here for medical advice." It was then that John looked up. In front of him stood the elderly man whom had attacked his so violently with his cane after the court case. "I'm here to apologise for my previous behaviour." A cough audibly linked to smoking accented the end of his sentence. John nodded a little and awaited his continuation. "I over reacted, I'm just so used to people trying to steal from me in this damn city." John nodded again and stood, turning away from him to look in the mirror at his bruise.  
"You did hurt me, you know." The elderly man moved so John couldn't see him in the mirror.  
"Again, I greatly apologise. I'm so sorry John, so sorry." There was a swooping sound of cloth which startled John and he turned. Before him, the elderly man had melted away and in his place stood a tall, young, dark, curly haired Sherlock.  
"You... oh God... oh God... You bastard... Oh..." John stumbled forward. Sherlock opened his arms to take John into them. John fell against his chest. "Oh Jesus... you're real... it's actually you... I... YOU BASTARD!" John punched him clean in the face before fainting.  
-x-

John awoke many minutes later, head aching and thoughts spinning through his head. He opened his eyes to images of Sherlock for the second time that day, only this time, this time it was real. Sherlock's face was a little worried, but soon it creased into a smile.  
"Good morning, Doctor." John just nodded dumbly and glanced around to find his legs elevated on the chair in which patients sat, and his back against the cold floor.  
"Sherlock..."  
"Yes John. Perhaps you should have my job." John dismissed the comment and threw his arms around his neck, pulling himself up to sit near him, and buried his face in his chest. He breathed in the smell of Sherlock, felt the feel of Sherlock, and fought to contain his tears.  
"How...?"  
"Hush John, let's get back to your apartment, and I'll make you a cup of tea.  
Sherlock soon re-disguised himself as the old man and crouched back into a crippling height. They walked down the white, shining halls of the surgery together, their canes clacking as they did so. The secretary held back her questions as they walked past; John shaking more than the mysterious elderly gentleman with whom he walked. Wait until Sarah hears about this, the secretary mused as she turned back to playing tic tac toe on her computer.  
Sherlock glanced around John's apartment quickly; John still too in shock to notice Sherlock deducing all activities that had taken place there in the past week? Month? Year? More? It was impossible to tell how well Sherlock's mind worked in such circumstances, and if John had noticed, he probably wouldn't have asked. All John did was collapse into an arm chair. Sherlock slipped into the kitchen and quickly produced what John assumed was meant to be coffee, shedding his disguise to the floor once again. As swift as a coursing river, Sherlock swept himself up into the only other chair in the tiny, dark apartment, thin legs folding neatly up to his chest, pointed chin resting on his knees. His cold, ice-blue eyes met with John's, forcing him to hold his gaze.  
"Where shall I start?" he inquired softly, watching John struggle with the vile 'coffee' he had made.  
"I don't know Sherlock." Though his voice was perfectly calm and so incredibly soft, John wanted to scream at him. He wanted to yell things like 'Why didn't you tell me?' or 'how did you even survive?' or maybe, most of all, 'why three years? Why leave me for all that time?'  
"I'll start with how I survived, shall I? Then I'll get on to why I didn't tell you, and finally why three years." Once again, Sherlock appeared to be able to read John's mind, just on something ridiculous like how many times he'd blinked.  
"A-alright... okay..." John felt himself feel faint once again, but he fought off the urge to collapse; he had to know. He just had to.  
"The person you saw who fell, John, was me. The person on the ground; it wasn't me."  
"But I saw you!"  
"No, John. You saw a piece of Molly's handiwork." Molly had known? But John hadn't? John felt his cheeks burn with envy. Why would Molly fucking Cooper- "Tell me, how smashed up was that face?" Inquired Sherlock, interrupting John's thoughts.  
"Very." John mumbled, feeling sick at the thought of seeing his best friend lying dead... but clearly not dead anymore.  
"You didn't see me hit the floor, did you?"  
"No... I... I didn't..." Sherlock smiled in response.  
"There's your answer."  
"So... I never... That wasn't you...?"  
"No, John. I landed in the lorry."  
"Oh my..." John lost control of his consciousness and fainted again, his last view was of Sherlock looking a little annoyed and, oh of course, bored, lunging forward to stop him hurting himself. A dull 'thank you' formed on his lips as the world faded away.  
John came to, this time with his legs up in the lap of Sherlock, who was sat in the comfier of the chairs. His justification would probably be something about it being the nicer place to sit.  
"Ah, you've awoken John. You look better this time. Shall I continue my tale?"  
"Continue it, Sherlock? You've barely begun."  
"Alright, begin my tale then." Sherlock waved a hand in a dismissive fashion and looked away, then back to him. "Would you like to sit somewhere a little more comfortable that at a right angle to me?" John nodded and sat cross legged at Sherlock's feet. "Now then, after falling into the lorry, I quickly took myself off to Molly's flat, and after a week or so, to France, funded by my dear Brother." Mycroft and Molly knew. Next he'll be told that Lestrade, Donovan and Mrs Hudson were all in on his fake death, too. "John, I had to jump. Moriarty... he's dead. He shot himself so that he wouldn't be able to call off the assassins..." he took a breath and looked down at him. "He had gunmen on Greg, on Mrs Hudson," so they didn't know, then. "And you, John. They were... if I didn't jump... they would have shot you." A pang of pain ran across Sherlock's face, but soon it was replaced by his normal mask of 'there are so many things that are more important than this'.  
"But you must have known this beforehand, to set everything up." John, regardless of what Sherlock thought, was very observant when it came to emotions. Especially the few that ever came across Sherlock's face, and he had noticed the look on Sherlock's face when he mentioned he might have been killed. It made him smile ever so slightly. Maybe Sherlock... just maybe...  
"Yes, of course I did." Sherlock continued quickly before John could ask any more questions. "But I couldn't let you know. Moriarty's men needed to be convinced that I was, in fact, dead. No man could fake the way you reacted to my jump, or the pure grief on your face at my funeral." He'd seen John at the funeral? John felt himself redden. He hadn't heard what he'd said at him grave had he? Oh dear..."I've spent the past three years tracking down Moriarty's men, and killing them." Sherlock's face went stony. "Anybody who tries to kill Mrs Hudson and Lestrade deserve the deaths I gave them." He paused, John looking confused at the lack of his name. "But one man is yet to be caught. This man is Sebastian Moran. Tonight, John, tonight he will be caught." A gleam came to his eyes; the gleam that John had so dearly missed. "And you, John, are welcome to come with me. In fact, you're obliged to come with me." He stood, helping John to his feet. "The game is afoot, John. And drop the cane. Limping is not convenient."  
-x-

John's head hurt. A mixture of elation and exasperation were running through it. He couldn't believe Sherlock was alive. Alive and well and here and oh, John couldn't contain himself. He wasn't sure he was coping with Sherlock being alive, but fainting twice was more than enough; he didn't plan on letting the incredible effects of the day get to him again. Most incredibly of all, here he was, sitting in the back of a London cab, Sherlock sitting next to him, calculating something in that strange head of his. Everything was normal again. Well, John couldn't help but laugh inwardly, causing his face to crease into a boyish smile that he had not smiled for at least three years. John allowed his eyes to run over Sherlock; he had never noticed John staring at him when he was lost in thought before; why would he now? But even if he did notice, John had a perfectly good excuse to be staring.  
Before they had left the house, Sherlock had insisted he change into a different disguise. The old man guise wouldn't do for him ('I'm far too tall to stay hunched over like that any longer'). Yes, it was Sherlock who sat next to him, but to the cabbie, the person with whom John Watson was sitting was not world-famous super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes, but it was, in fact, his girlfriend. "Now John," Sherlock stepped towards John as he picked up his clutch bag before they had left. "I am Olivia, your new girlfriend. We're on our way home after a night out with our friends. We're a little playful, and I'm far younger than you." John frowned at that. "You are, as would be expected, pretty pleased that you've managed to score with someone like me and- what? What's so funny?" John hadn't been able to control his laughter at that point.  
"Whatever you say, Olivia. Whatever you say." John had then slipped his arm around 'Olivia's' waist and walked out with him. John shivered a little thinking about it, and dragged his eyes over the disguise, and had to admit that Sherlock had out done himself.  
John hadn't ever realised quite how well the detective's face would adjust to being female. John also hadn't realised how well Sherlock could apply makeup. With the crafty use of fairly few makeup items (and an incredible amount of time), Sherlock had transformed his face into that of a beautiful young woman. He had layered his natural hair with extension for a more natural look (at least that had been Sherlock's justification) and it was long, softly curled and it framed his high cheek bones to the point where John was convinced that he could cut himself slapping that face... not that he'd want to. The clothing Sherlock wore was tasteful, and hugged his slim figure and showed off the curve of his artificial breast. John hadn't noticed Sherlock-Olivia- had been returning his intense gaze for quite some time now.  
"Something the matter, Darling?" he purred, in a feminine voice that John never would have thought Sherlock capable of.  
"No, not at all, dear. Just admiring your-" John stumbled, he could hardly say 'breasts' "pearls. They look lovely on you." Sherlock's features creased into a soft smile, staying totally and perfectly in character.  
"Well, I have to look nice for you." he ran a hand across John's cheek. John realised the cabbie must be looking at them in the mirror; it was the only logical reason as to why Sherlock was so... Close.  
He couldn't question this any further though as the cab came to an abrupt halt. The night had long since reared its head, forcing the day to cower down by Australia. John blinked as he helped Sherlock from the cab; even taller than usual in a pair of delicate heels.  
"Recognise where we are?" John glanced around and blinked.  
"It's... It's Baker Street!"  
"I take it you haven't been here for a long time, dear." Sherlock-Olivia-was insistently in character, and John, quite frankly, wished he-she-wouldn't loop his-her- arm into his like that, and when did Sherlock learn to hold himself so... Gracefully? Oh, whom was it that John thought he was kidding? Sherlock moved so incredibly gracefully all the time. He even sulked gracefully.  
"Sher-" John began to speak but was stopped by 'Olivia' clamping her mouth over John's pulling him close. John's mind stopped, and he lost his breath. Unable to speak he stared at Sherlock.  
"I simply can't wait any longer, Darling! Come on! Let's go in!" hastily and desperately, 'Olivia' dragged 'her' boyfriend into the empty house across the street from 221B.  
"For God's sake John!" Sherlock ran his fingers through the extensions; his voice back to its deep, incredible baritone. "You were about to call me Sherlock! Do you get any stupider?" John just blinked. His head was still fuzzy from the kiss, and he couldn't process anything other than the inner blogger running in circles in his head going 'OH EHM GEEEEEE ASDFGHJKL'. "John, I'm in disguise for a reason. John, we're here for a reason. Sebastian Moran, remember him?" John just blinked at him. "Oh for goodness' sake, John!" Sherlock sighed deeply, then his face softened, and he slipped his hand around John's comfortingly. Are you quite done making my head explode, you horrible man? Thought John's numbly, glancing quickly down at the long, pale fingers in his. "We need to wait here for him. He'll come here to take a shot at the man whom he thinks is me." Sherlock waved his hand at a shadow that looked remarkably like himself.  
"Sherlock, who...?"  
"Just a waxwork figure I picked up in Paris, John." Sherlock shrugged and smiled. "We need to stay hidden until Sebastian arrives. Oh, and John, calm your pulse." John blushed heavily and slipped into hiding next to Sherlock, trying desperately to calm down his heart, still racing from the kiss.  
-x-  
For what seemed like hours they sat behind a long, heavy curtain that smelt strongly of stale pipe tobacco, moth balls, and, most repulsively, urine. John deduced that this had once been the house of an elderly man, probably lived on his own for the last few years of his life before dying alone a while ago.  
"A woman, John." Sherlock whispered. "It was a woman who lived here. She wasn't that old either."  
"Wh-what...?"  
"Don't question it, John, I shall explain later." John was certain Sherlock wouldn't explain later. He'd often forget his deductions if he didn't explain them at the time, and they weren't important enough to remember. "A taxi just pulled up outside, and judging by the length and weight of the footsteps, I'd say it's Sebastian Moran." John felt his breathing stop for a moment. He was about to see the face of the man who was hoping to kill Sherlock, and had tried to kill him.  
The door opened with an ominous creak that sent shivers through John. Sherlock must have felt this (hardly surprising as they were sitting so close) and took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. John tightened his grip a little in return and held his breath. Sherlock also seemed to not be breathing, but then again, he never breathed that loudly at all. John watched in a suspense he had never before felt as the man who must have been Sebastian Moran stepped into the small, dusty room.  
He moved almost silently. The only indications of his footsteps were the creaks in the old wooden floor boards. Moran came the window and opened it, coughing a little at the pile of dust that must have formed on the window ledge, then placed something down on the hard wood flooring; a suitcase, perhaps? John was unsure, but soon he realised it must be the case in which his sniper rifle was kept. He winced as the distinctive sound of a sniper rifle being set up rattled through the room. After what seemed hours of incredible, heart wrenching tension, Moran lowered his eye to the sight, and took aim at the remarkable wax work figure of Sherlock. He took a breath, and fired.  
It was at that moment that Sherlock did something John had not expected. As the glass in 221B Baker Street shattered, he leapt from behind the curtain with a great cry of rage, tackling Moran to the floor. John could barely process what was happening, but soon leapt to assist Sherlock. Sebastian refused to go down without a fight, and with the tenacity of a tiger, he leapt from beneath them both and punched John in the jaw, sending him flying into the back wall. John's vision went blurry, but he grabbed his phone none the less, and whilst Sherlock and Sebastian danced about the room, occasionally throwing punches, he called Lestrade.  
"Hey, you wouldn't happen to be anywhere near Baker Street would y-" John was cut off by Lestrade helping him to his feet and sending a few policemen to grab Sebastian, who soon went limp in his hands. Great, Sherlock hadn't told John an important part of the plan. Again.  
Sherlock stood from the floor, lip split, eyes watery and impressive bruises all down the side of his face.  
"How many times have you lain in wait for your target to appear? How many times have you waited to end the life of a perfectly innocent human? What goes through your head, Sebastian? All that ran through my head when I was waiting was how much I wanted to hurt you." Sherlock's voice was getting louder and louder, the danger in his eyes stopped anyone being amused by the fact that he was still in his guise as Olivia. "No one, NO ONE, points a gun at the head of Doctor John Watson and lives to-"  
"Sherlock." Lestrade cut in quickly and put a hand on his shoulder. "Calm down. We've got him." With a nod from the Detective Inspector, Sebastian Moran was dragged away. Sherlock was absolutely seething, his chest heaving from the ragged lung-fulls of air he was stealing from the atmosphere, but soon he composed himself.  
"Good to see you, Greg. If you don't mind, John has had an awfully long day. I feel he would benefit from returning home." John looked up.  
"Should I call a taxi?" Sherlock blinked at John's proposal.  
"You could, but how lazy of you." John looked confused.  
"My flat is seventeen miles away..."  
"Honestly John. You're such a fool sometimes." Sherlock's tone was exasperated. "You live across the street. If you wish to talk to Lestrade I shall head home and clean at least some of the glass. It's the nicest thing I can do for Mrs Hudson. Excuse me." With that, Sherlock disappeared out of the door.  
John turned to look at Lestrade.  
"How long have you known?" DI Lestrade blinked.  
"Known what, John?"  
"That Sherlock was never dead." Greg smiled a little. It was the smile of a man who really didn't want John Watson to attack him.  
"Oh. He only made himself known to me this morning, promise." John looked at Lestrade. He had become his drinking buddy, and he could tell with great ease when exactly it was that he was lying. This was not one of those moments.  
"Alright." He smiled. "I better get back home. Goodness knows what'll happen if I leave Sherlock to his own devices near a lot of broken glass." Lestrade just laughed and walked out in front of him.  
John took his time cross the street. For a while he just stared up at 221B. He could barely stand the knowledge that Sherlock was back, and that he was about to walk into his home, his actual, proper home, for the first time in 3 years to find Sherlock doing something outrageously bizarre. It made him smile. Living with Sherlock had often been a chore; similar to babysitting an inquisitive child. He'd often grown tired of having to both practically and literally run after Sherlock to stop him doing something too insane. And John Watson had missed it. He'd missed it so, so much.  
"Ah, John, there you are." Said Sherlock softly as John walked through to door to find the apartment exactly as he'd left it three years ago, only with a creepy wax work figure and a boarded up window's difference. Sherlock had found time to change back into his normal clothing, and had removed his hair extensions. There was still the faintest trace of lipstick lining his mouth.  
"Yeah, hey." John replied, making his way over to his arm chair. Before he could sit, however, long, thin arms wrapped around his frame. John was shocked into silence as he felt Sherlock's face nuzzle into his neck. John returned the hug and sighed deeply and happily. After what seemed an eternity, Sherlock finally spoke.  
"I've missed you, John Watson." And John smiled.  
-x-  
John glanced around the flat. Nothing had changed since the last time he'd been here. He'd abandoned most of his things; not needing them.  
"Have you been living here, Sherlock?" he murmured into Sherlock's chest, not wanting to let go of Sherlock for fear that he would disappear from him once again; that he'd wake up and that it would all be a horrible dream, a horrific, terrible dream in which his brain tormented him with the possibility of Sherlock's return. But no, the punch he'd taken had been too sore, and Sherlock was too warm to be a figment of his imagination.  
"No. That would be too dangerous, John." Sherlock's voice was also a quiet mumble; his speech muffled by John's neck. "I just had Mycroft pay Mrs Hudson to dust in here every once in a while." John nodded and pulled back.  
"It's been a long day... would you like some coffee? Or tea?" Sherlock nodded and went and sat in his chair.  
"But the problem with that is-"  
"We're out of milk," finished John with an exasperated sigh. "I should have guessed."  
For an hour or so after that, John sat next to Sherlock, quietly telling him about what he'd been doing over the three years Sherlock had been away. He knew Sherlock would know all about it, just by looking at how his hair was falling or something ridiculous like that, but for some reason, Sherlock listened. John couldn't recall a time when Sherlock had ever cared about the ins and outs of John's day, but he didn't ask any questions. Sherlock barely said anything the entire time, just nodding and interjecting the occasional "mhmm" to show he was paying close attention.  
The small clock on the mantelpiece chimed 6 o'clock, and John blinked.  
"That can't be right..." He looked down at his watch to see that it was, in fact, five minutes to midnight. He chuckled to himself and walked over to the clock, picking up the ticking time device in his hands. He turned it over and wound it up, then spun the hands around to the correct time. He suddenly felt a presence behind him. It was Sherlock, standing awfully close.  
"John," began Sherlock, placing his hands on John's shoulders and turning him around. "When I kissed you-" John went red and pulled away from him.  
"What? What about it?" Sherlock smiled.  
"You're suddenly so defensive." He laughed.  
"Well, I don't see why we need to talk about it." Said John, rather faster than he had meant to, colour rising from his toes to the tips of his hair. "You were in character, you needed to stop me from saying something stupid. There's nothing more to discuss about it, it was perfectly normal and let's never talk about it again." Sherlock laughed. A deep, baritone laugh that shook every inch of his body.  
"My, my, John. May I ask you something?" John looked up, glaring at the still chuckling man. "How much do you think protesting is going to help?" John blinked. "I'm the world's only consulting detective. Do you really think that if you yell quickly at me, I'll un-notice what I noticed?" John, if it had been possible, went redder. "Now then, just in case some sort of moral gets in your way; I'm going to kiss you again." Sherlock reached out and slid his very pale hand against John's cheek. "Unless you don't want me to, that is."  
John couldn't believe he'd just heard what he'd heard.  
"Of course I want you to kiss me again, you idiot." He threw himself at Sherlock then, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him. It was true, absence made the heart grow fonder, and John couldn't begin to describe how much fonder his heart had made him. He loved Sherlock. But his love was difficult to describe. It wasn't the way he loved any of his girlfriends; no, he didn't plan on enticing Sherlock to the bedroom. Neither was it the love he felt for Harry, or his parents. He felt like Sherlock was a completion of him, and he needed him to survive. Until the English language provided him with a word to describe it, John thought that kissing would be the best way to demonstrate his feelings. And he was right.  
The kiss was gentle, although the hold the two men had on each other was tight and desperate, expressing how much they'd missed each other in the way most people had expressed it for years, normally at the end of a movie with the entire orchestra celebrating the meeting of two hearts just before the end credits rolled. Eventually Sherlock pulled back and ran his thumb over John's cheek.  
"Well," beamed Sherlock, sitting on the sofa with John still in his arms, "people definitely will talk."  
"People do little else." muttered John, drowsy with the thrills of having Sherlock, his Sherlock, back, home, and in his arms. They fell into a comfortable, sleepy silence until finally they slipped into sleep on the couch.


End file.
